Recruitment (xover)
by Adrian Tullberg
Summary: When unemployed, you'd better take every opportunity available.


The inmate lay on the bed, alone in his cell.

He wondered how someone with such power, such influence, could have fallen - in that vague idle fashion that only a rhetorical question could generate.

Right now, it was hard to comprehend that he was once powerful, once feared.

And at the apex of his position, it was nigh impossible to conceive that the inmate had once believed.

He'd believed in the cause, he'd believed in the reasons, he'd believed, heart and soul, in the Party.

That belief was underscored by passion. The higher-ups had seen that passion, that drive, that talent, and his rise was swift and sure.

Then he'd gotten involved in the deal making, the compromises, the shabby deals in the dark underbelly.

The belief soured.

A dark bitterness had consumed him as his talent and charisma was turned not towards the noble causes that drew him to the Party in his youth, but towards managing and protecting the transient climbers, the lacking, the incompetents who somehow managed to fail upwards despite reason and physics.

A small red light started to grow outside. The inmate thought it appropriate.

Over the years, the belief curled, and cultured into a simmering rage.

That rage, paradoxically, fuelled his talents and his star lofted even higher. The trick was not to let his rage consume him, but let it project, guide the rage, aim it. Every underling, every so-called equal or superior who withered under his rage knew exactly that he was capable and willing to do what he was threatening to do to them.

_His_ belief had withered, but _their_ belief in what he was capable of grew, and grew.

He rose, and rose no higher. His star faltered.

There was still a sliver of belief, even at the end. That was what motivated him to do what he had to do.

Then he stumbled, and the fear of him diminished.

Now he was here. No favours to call, no influence to mitigate his circumstances.

Stuck in a cell having sacrificed his career, his reputation, his _life_ for once glorious belief. The grand belief that he could change things for the better, now a cold pit in an old man's stomach.

Even now, the rage grew as he knew what put him here; the need for other people. The need for deals to be made, compromises to undertake.

But you needed people to make changes. Noisy, sweaty, smelly, lying, unreliable, incompetent, unwilling people. And his ability to manage people used not to change things but keep them exactly how they were.

Finally breaking out of his reverie, the inmate noticed that the red light was growing noticeably brighter from outside.

A sharp crack rounded around the cell, making him get up in a galvanic twitch.

That crack had been something that had punched through the reinforced brick wall like a bullet into the inmate's cell. And that something was the glowing red object - red ring, hovering in the air in front of him.

**_You have great rage in your heart._**

And just like that, it was on his finger.

His chest burned. The inmate fell off the bed, in a crumpled heap as his body was racked in pain as his chest burned from the inside out.

Then his rage grew, amplified, swelled like a tsunami crashing down.

He was going to ... he would...

The inmate clutched the edge of his bed, and hauled himself up. The heat, the pain, the rage, growing as he stood, planted his feet on the ground and faced it head on.

This horrible occurrence, this power - take it, hold it, _use it_.

It never abated. The power was burning through his entire body, never ceasing.

The inmate grasped the power, and welded the new force within.

He could see it now, the energies within. With deep shuddering breaths he took a firm grasp and embraced this new force.

_Oh yes._

He knew, instantly, immediately, what this was, this rage, this hate, this power.

He knew what it could do, what it couldn't. It's limitations were few.

The inmate could wield rage like a warrior, like a master.

He knew how to use this power.

He still believed, at the very core of him.

His life had not been wasted. He had been preparing, unconsciously, for this power his entire life.

And now he didn't need people, organisations, the Party. He knew exactly what to do, what to target, and more importantly, _who_ to target, who would stumble, who would run. Because all great things needed people, and he knew how to manage people, singularly and en mass. Now he knew exactly what was necessary; start over, and burn the whole lot to ground if necessary.

The inmate smiled for the first time he'd been imprisoned, his mouth dripping blood.

**_Malcolm Tucker; Welcome to the Red Lantern Corps._**


End file.
